


Like Real People Do

by helo572



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Battle Couple, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Guitars, M/M, Music, Musical Instruments, Mutual Pining, Not Serious, Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, at all, just a fun fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: Jesse McCree forgot he could play the guitar. Hanzo Shimada sources amusement out of this, among other things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I got prompted the song Like Real People Do from Hozier, first kiss, guitars and McHanzo. Now we're here in this hole of fluff. I hope you enjoy the read :)

A three week strike operation at Lumerico comes to a close on the beach, a campfire stirring in the sand, a collection of logs arranged in a circle around the flames that lick up towards the black sky. Dorado twinkles in the background, a peaceful city that now sleeps easier without the shadow lurking at its heels.

 

It’s Friday night. Jesse has a beer in his hand. Half the team is here in Mexico -- Angela, Lena, Lúcio, Hana and Hanzo -- and at Jesse’s quiet suggestion of a little R-and-R, are down on the beach tonight. The ride home isn’t in until tomorrow morning. People are winding down. Life is good.

 

They raise glasses and bottles to Angela’s toast. _To Overwatch_. Winston joins in over the comm, finishing with an update: the Mexican authorities have taken over condemning the plant and are grateful for Overwatch’s assistance in catching the shady operation.

 

Bathed in orange, Lena, Lúcio and Hana sit together enveloped in stupid stories, exaggerated hand gestures and bursts of laughter. Empty green bottles sit between them on the log. A trunk over, Angela is perched next to Jesse, legs crossed in front of her, golden hair up in a messy ponytail. She is nursing a glass of wine, a loose smile on her face as they talk.

 

Hanzo appears for the comm call, a small presence perched between two logs in the sand, arms loosely hugging his knees. He saunters away as the small celebration creeps in around the fire and the waft of alcohol starts to fill the air. Now he stands facing the ocean, a perfect image of a statue framed against the sea. Jesse finds himself watching him more often than not, eyes drifting from Angela’s face as she muses aloud about their mysterious tip-off: a program called Sombra.

 

“Mission is over, Ang,” he reminds her softly, as she dwindles on. He’s tired, ready to roll over in his bunk back home at Gibraltar. “Let it be for tonight.” A playful nudge. She pulls back smiling. “Let ya hair down.”

 

She lifts up the glass between her fingers in answer. “I am trying,” she says, a little sheepishly.

 

He tips back his head in a laugh. “That’s the spirit.”

 

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and suddenly they’re both looking at Hanzo. Angela sighs. “How did he go?” She looks at him. He doesn’t look away.

 

“Good. Had my back. Bein’ honest with ya, I forgot what that felt like.”

 

As if his ears were burning, Hanzo breaks out of his stone composure, turning to look at them. His ribbon is caught in the sea breeze. He raises an eyebrow in question. Jesse waves a dismissive hand. _Don’t worry your pretty little head about it_.

 

A quirk of a smile, then he turns back towards the ocean. Jesse frowns.

 

Hanzo is a reserved man, yet their banter during the mission hadn’t been lacking; after all, they shadow each other. Jesse’s new partner. Communication is key, more so in a team: a close range gunslinger and an archer. Winston has nothing but good words for their sims together.

 

The past three weeks consisted of their first field test. Surprisingly, it’s a three weeks Jesse enjoyed at the archer’s side. He sings nothing but praise of his partner. Hanzo smiles occasionally, like when Jesse quips things like _nice one, partner_ or _good shot_.

 

Taking down an entire Lumerico operations plant seems like confirmation their arrangement is working.

 

The weeks spent preparing saw them run numerous sims together, but also sitting down to talk. Sometimes about the country or old westerns, or about cherry blossoms and tea. Before this, Hanzo Shimada had been nothing more than a story from Genji’s few spoken words about him all those years ago, or short mentions in passing, or Reyes muttering “Damn Shimadas” on a particular venture to Hanamura under his breath.

 

Now he’s Agent Hanzo, a slow but steady addition to the team. Jesse McCree’s partner in crime. He should be here involved in the festivities, at Jesse’s side, like he has been for the past few months in training and now in Mexico, inseparably so.

 

“’Scuse me, Ang, I’m gonna--” He gets halfway to his feet but she takes his arm, halting his efforts towards Hanzo.

 

“C’mon, McCree,” Lúcio implores from across the campfire. The whole group is looking at him. Confusion eats away at him quickly, eyebrows drawing together. “I found a real nice guitar in one of those dingy shops. And you look like the kinda man who knows how to work one.”

 

Jesse is frowning again. “Wha?”

 

“Like you used to!” Angela answers, giving his arm an asking shake. “Remember we’d have those sing-a-longs in the rec room over Easter and Christmas?”

 

“Sing-a-longs? What are you goin’ on about--”

 

It dawns on him Lúcio has a guitar in his lap, a real oldie with speckled wood and bathed in earthy colors, and that he’s missed half a god damn conversation because he was thinking about Hanzo Shimada.

 

“Aw _please_ , Jesse,” Lena asks, big brown eyes expectant. Hana is grinning. Lúcio offers the instrument forward as if it were a gift.

 

There’s a moment of pause where the cowboy realises Hanzo is also watching him, too. He caves, “Aw, hell. Alright.”

 

A partially drunken woop in reply. A grin creeps onto Jesse’s face, tugging at the corners of his mouth, spreading as he takes the instrument around the neck, admiring the weight as he takes it. It’s a good guitar. Old, but good. Reliable.

 

Familiar.

 

The Overwatch symbol winks at him in the weak light from the fire, from Angela’s vest as he sits down. He’s on the third, empty log, across from everybody. “And what exactly am I playin’ for ya’ll?”

 

“Something nice.” Hana smirks at him across the campfire, elbows planted on her knees, both hands cradling her face.

 

The picture is quite something -- all of their eyes on him, expectant, excited, relaxed. He scoffs, shaking his head, eyes dropping to the guitar. Quite the image indeed.

 

His fingers settle onto the strings, and brown shaggy hair falls in front of his eyes. When he looks back up again, Hanzo is seated next to Angela. She says something to him, he answers equally softly.

 

Suddenly, he’s concerned about embarrassing himself. He hasn’t picked up a guitar in years. Slowly, he strums a G Major chord. The strings hum nicely to his ear, a comforting sound.

 

“An oldie,” he announces. “For old friends, and new ones, too.”

 

They all raise their glasses in a silent toast. A smile crosses Hanzo’s face; he sees it in the low light.

 

 

He sings, something about Real People. It shouldn’t bother him, but Hanzo stares the whole time.

 

* * *

 

 

Jesse’s still buzzing when the transport arrives the next morning -- whether it’s from the alcohol or the chords that washed away the night he’s not sure. Mexico waves them off. He tries not to doze in the carrier. It’s easy, what with the background noise of team chatter, and Athena’s mechanical voice informing them it’s an eight hour flight back home at Mach 2.

 

He sleeps anyway, with the nagging feeling he’s forgotten something awfully important.

 

* * *

 

 

The standard-grade bunk is far more comfortable than Jesse remembers. The pillow is inviting, even more so than the shower and the warm lighting of the bathroom. Thank time differences that debrief is this afternoon in Gibraltar time, now he’s got a whole day to waste sleeping running on Mexico time.

 

He’s up by two o’clock, and freshly showered and still slightly buzzing, he heads for the range. Hanzo’s beaten him there -- their normal spot, as if they never left for Mexico. Does he want to train? Now?

 

“Afternoon.” He tips his hat in greeting. “Didn’t think I’d see you back here so soon. Thought you’d be sick of me for sure after that.”

 

“Hardly.”

 

Jesse huffs. “Glad the feelin’ is mutual. You ain’t bad company, Shimada, and a handy bow arm to have lyin’ ‘round too. Wouldn’t have snagged that op without you, I’m sure.”

 

“A team effort,” he replies.

 

“Aw, don’t kid yourself. You did good.” He starts for the bench at the back of the range to set down his bag and check over _Peacekeeper._ Hanzo’s eyes follow him carefully. “Missed ya at the bonfire, too. Was just a little fun. I understand if you was tired --”

 

He’s expecting a correction of his grammar, instead, “It was a good event, for the part that I attended.”

 

“You mean my singin’,” he translates, throwing the archer an amused glance. Hanzo frowns. “I mean, it ain’t really the sexy Southern drawl you’re used to. Somethin’ different, a li’l celebration for bringin’ down Lumerico.”

 

“It was not bad. Quite good, actually. I was surprised.”

 

Jesse snorts this time, a hand on his breast as he laughs. “Aw, you wound me.” He clutches at his chest, hand poised over his heart, and gives it a thump. _Shot through the heart._

 

Hanzo scoffs, rolls his brown eyes. “Genji liked similar music to you,” he shares. Jesse finds himself smiling sympathetically. _“Kurashikku_ , he called it, rather mockingly. Old songs for him to sing while playing on his ancient arcade machines.” He’s reminiscing, the conversation oddly personal. Jesse suddenly feels like he’s misplaced the context for this conversation. Something he’s forgotten. Hanzo goes on, “I do not mind them, either.”

 

Jesse entertains him, “Eh, that one last night was... what? Two thousand and fourteen? Fifteen? _Hozier_. Nice and old fashioned for ya, Shimada. It’s as old as Reinhardt.”

 

“You sung it nicely.”

 

“Aw shucks,” Jesse teases, a grin on his face. He hopes he’s imagining the heat creeping to his cheeks. “First you tease, now you play nice.” Half-seriously, “What’s the deal tonight, eh? Cut a jetlagged cowboy some slack.”

 

Hanzo considers the question, too, then he shrugs. It’s an uncommon gesture coming from him. “I have had a lot to consider.” Then, retreating, his eyes cast back to the range. The training bots lay paused: frozen stances litter in the training ground. Some in ridiculous poses, others simply like they’re standing, waiting for something. Hanzo must have stopped them when Jesse walked in. He _wanted_ to talk. “I apologise.”

 

“Aw, don’t.” His bag forgotten, _Peacekeeper_ lying on the bench, he approaches Hanzo. The archer looks back at him, frowning. Apologetic. _Darn_ , he looks like a kicked puppy. “Somethin’ on your mind, we should talk it out. What partners are for, yeah? Gotta keep up our game.”

 

To Jesse’s disappointment, the archer restarts the bots. Their broken suspended animation is almost comical. Hanzo turns back towards them, Jesse deflates.

 

“It is nothing,” he says, shortly. He fires an arrow, it lands clean through the eye of the second furthest bot, perched on a ledge. It is a scatter arrow -- blue streaks fly from the successful shot, shredding through another nearby bot. Athena rings out: _double kill_. Hanzo exhales. “I will see you at the debrief.”

 

He had wanted to talk, and yet.

 

Jesse gives a quiet sigh. “Aw, okay.” He half considers leaving, then realises that’s a ridiculous thought. He needs to shake off his jitters before the debrief. “A fella can’t shoot up a few rounds with you, though?”

 

Hanzo has an arrow nocked, halfway through drawing, and pauses at the cowboy’s words. “Alright,” he agrees after a moment’s consideration, then releases the fully drawn arrow, quick as a flea.

 

It’s something.

 

“Thanks, partner.”

 

He sees Hanzo quirk a smile before turning to retrieve _Peacekeeper_.

 

* * *

 

 

The debrief is a debrief: Winston rattling off sim records, comparing it to their performance in the field, comm chatter, all that. Jesse’s heard it all before. Hanzo listens with great intent.

 

Lena corners him as it comes to a close. The newspaper article from the Mexican national holonews is on the viewscreen behind her, Winston’s concluding point. _You are all doing good things._ The headline reads: _Watching over Mexico: Return of Overwatch_.

 

“I spoke to the guys,” she opens with, no preamble, “aaaaand we reckon you rekindle that ol’ tradition the doc said.” She strums an imaginary guitar, a terrible imitation, but Jesse quirks an amused smile regardless.

 

“Oh, yeah?” he croons.

 

She implores, “ _Please_ , Jesse. It’d be splendid and give that rec room a good workout. That fire was the best fun I’ve 'ad in a while. Be good to involve the other folks, too, at least with the chillin’ and singin’ part.” She’s actually _serious_ , he realises, and is halfway through considering when she adds, “Lúcio says you can keep the guitar.”

 

“It’s a nice guitar,” he laments, mainly to himself.

 

“You know it,” she agrees, and starts giving him fingerguns. He scoffs back a laugh.

 

“Lemme think ‘bout it,” he agrees. Can’t say no to that face. “I’m out of practice. Real bad. Ain’t picked one up since my Blackwatch days, Lena. You know how long ago that was?” He shakes his head, keeps lamenting, “God damn, I’m _old_.” His eyes are drawn back to the holonews article: _Return of Overwatch_. He sighs, looking back to Lena. She’s grinning cheekily.

 

“Don’t look a day over twenty, mate,” she quips, a quick tap on the shoulder.

 

“Hey, flattery ain’t getting me any closer to a verdict,” he warns, wagging a finger. “Careful, you.” Her grin widens. “I’ll think on it. Let ya know.”

 

Lena gives him a mock salute. “Thanks. It’ll be good fun, I know it.”

 

 _Return of Overwatch_ , the headline reminds him again, as Lena darts off. _You are doing good things._

 

* * *

 

 

Out of practice wasn’t entirely a lie. Muscle memory is a blessing -- Jesse’s is well-trained from years of handling guns of all shapes and sizes. He always falls back on revolvers, and a G Major chord, and the old songs Reyes used to whistle as they weaved through all sorts of ops.

 

There’s a quiet spot out near the rockwall, a pebble throw from the balcony outside Winston’s office. The sea sings with him there, helping to keep time. Notes move through four-four time, cascading into three-four as he tries to remember the lyrics to his old country songs, and into six-eight as he tries to recall that waltz Gabriel taught him.

 

He falls back on that Hozier song more often than not, always remembering the lyrics but never the name, it never was too important to him. The meaning always sits the heaviest.

 

“That is what you played in Mexico.” Hanzo’s voice.

 

Jesse starts, the archer is behind him, a long shadow is cast out along the drone track. The sun has sunk in the sky, it now hovers closer to the horizon. It’s late.

 

“Right it is.” He turns to face Hanzo properly, the guitar propped against his chest, his arm sitting comfortably over it. “Always liked an oldie.” He sighs, shaking his head. Hanzo watches him, unmoving: his arms are crossed loosely, and his lips are set into an unimpressed line. It takes one good _look_ at him, and then Jesse reels. “ _Shit_ ,” he exclaims, “it’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Lost track of the god damn time.”

 

It’s late, and it’s Tuesday. A training day.

 

Good job, Jesse McCree.

 

Surprisingly, Hanzo relaxes, his gaze softening. Even more surprisingly: he moves to sit down on the rock next to him. “I did not expect to find you here,” he admits. “Snoring, perhaps. Or with the Doctor tending to one of your ridiculously charged injuries.”

 

“No faith in me, have ya?”

 

An amused smile appears on Hanzo’s face, but he does not answer. There’s a lapse of silence, where suddenly Jesse feels like he’s a fifteen year-old kid in middle school who can’t actually _play_ the guitar, he just carries it around for the prospect of turning all the cute girls’ heads. Hanzo is simply staring out at the ocean.

 

His next words startle Jesse, “You have been practicing, then.” They’re not short, or loud, just a clean cut through the silence and his jumble of current thoughts. Fifteen year old lovestruck kid.

 

Jesse brushes his nose with his thumb. “Yeah.”

 

Hanzo _hmphs_. Then, teasingly, “Care to show me the product of your _dedicated_ practice, then?” Perhaps you play better than you shoot.” His eyebrow rises silently in challenge, and then there’s a smirk.

 

The song’s called _Real People Do_ , Jesse suddenly remembers, and it’s about slowly falling in love with someone with roses for skin: petals and thorns, both at the same time.

 

“Uh,” he stutters. “Yeah. I can. I mean. What do you wanna hear?”

 

“The one from before,” Hanzo answers, like it’s obvious. “From the bonfire in Mexico.”

 

That was short of two weeks and a half ago. Since then -- training as normal, Lena sent out until next Friday for a London-based op, fleeting glances and awkward half-talks since the fluff in the range.

 

Fifteen year old lovestruck _kids_. He’s betting his hat on it.

 

It tends to happen to partners, anyway. You know them inside and out -- you have to. In a firefight you have to think together; move together. It’s all about staying alive and keeping _each other_ alive. You can communicate effortlessly: a glance, a flick of the wrist, a tap on a weapon, but actually _talking_ is a different story.

 

“Can do, partner.”

 

The G Major chord is familiar, sitting nicely on his fingers. Hanzo leans forward. Jesse strums, and realises he’s actually a fifteen year-old kid in middle school who _can_ play the guitar, and it’s actually a lot cheesier than the former. It’s like a god damn rom-com.

 

He works through the verses, and like last time, Hanzo stares.

 

And stares.

 

And stares.

 

The song closes on another G Major chord, with Jesse feeling like he’s done this all before -- that is, Hanzo’s brown eyes fixated on Jesse’s face as he focuses on his fingers working across the strings, making the instrument sing, bending it to his whims.

 

So he stares back, the last chord ringing out across their little slice of life, framed by the hum of the sea in the background.

 

Then suddenly Hanzo Shimada is kissing him, soft lips on Jesse’s, hesitant yet precise, slow yet sure. Hanzo tastes like mint tea leaves and wood and sunlight that streams down through a thick canopy. He leans closer to Jesse, who raises a hand to gently steady him, guitar-calloused fingers steadying the archer’s bare shoulder.

 

It’s something.

 

Hanzo pulls back first. He’s still staring. Jesse just laughs to himself, which finally wipes the blank look off Hanzo’s face. Typically, he frowns.

 

“That’s the cheesiest anybody’s ever kissed me. Just puttin’ that out there,” he explains. “I mean, you could of just asked, but --”

 

Hanzo interrupts, “I had a lot to consider.” A parrot of their conversation before the debrief in the training room, with the catalyst of guitar playing and fifteen year old lovestruck kids.

 

Ridiculous.

 

A part of him quietly wonders what Reyes would think, and the other part of him is obsessing over how Hanzo looks after he’s been kissed.

 

“Glad this guitar is good for somethin’, then.” He smooths down the strings, Hanzo watches him, and butterflies stir in his chest. “A li’l stripe of luck.”

 

Hanzo barks a laugh. “ _Luck_? That we were assigned as partners, perhaps, the rest is simply the way the water flows.”

 

“Is that your cryptic way of sayin’ you’ve always been interested in me?”

 

Another laugh, quieter this time. He looks out towards the ocean again, and so does Jesse. The golden ribbon in his hair is captured by the ocean breeze. As it sinks again, cascading down Hanzo’s back, Jesse lets out a sigh.

 

“Yer a damn good partner, though, I’ll give ya that,” he says softly, lets the words roll off his tongue like the calm rolling of the sea. If this is going to work, it needs to be calm, to be slow. “Pretty damn alluring, too.”

 

Hanzo scoffs. “You have an interesting way of flattering people.”

 

Jesse huffs, too. Hanzo starts smiling, and it spreads quickly like a virus, finding Jesse’s still-tender lips.

 

It’ll work. Real people do. They will, too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come find me on [Tumblr](http://talizorahs.tumblr.com)!


End file.
